


happy shitty christmas

by Previously8



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Christmas, Chronically Ill Karkat Vantas, Gen, Hospitals, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Slash, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28274217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Previously8/pseuds/Previously8
Summary: “So, what brings you here?”For the prompt: Character A and Character B meet in the ER on Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Dave Strider & Karkat Vantas
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	happy shitty christmas

**Author's Note:**

> so I originally wrote this November 2019, and all things in due course, recently rediscovered it and edited it! and just in time for xmas eve, who knew? I was in the mood for old-fashioned humanstuck davekat, so I tried to fulfill some of my favourite old tropes :))
> 
> it's mostly lighthearted and fun but it does take place in the ER & deals obliquely with medical things :) rated T for swearing!

“So, what brings you here?”

Karkat squints up at the person asking him possibly the dumbest question ever, seeing as he’s sitting on the floor of the ER on Christmas Eve. The guy is wearing sunglasses, which is a fucking dumb thing to being doing inside, anyway, and is holding a white pad of gauze to his forehead above the dark glasses hiding his eyes. He’s leaning on what Karkat at first assumes to be a walking stick, but actually looks more like a sword sheath, and is staring down at Karkat. 

“What the fuck?” Karkat asks. 

“Cool,” the guy says, and sinks down into the spot next to Karkat, which has been free ever since the last guy, who had smelled like puke and old socks, had been called in half an hour before. Karkat didn’t think the trickle and occasional crush of people through the ER would slow down, but it seems that it has. He checks his phone. It’s just past two-thirty in the morning. He’s been here almost four hours. 

“I fell down the stairs,” the guy adds, laying his sword across his lap. He’s still looking at Karkat—presumably, at least, since his glasses make it impossible to see his eyes. “It was pretty sick, actually.” He mumbles something under his breath—a warning, maybe?

Karkat stares back across the room at the bright white wall with the childish painting of a clownfish. It’s the same one that he’s been staring at since he got here, and it has only slowly started to look more stupid, not less. He tries to appreciate the artistic genius of it, but only thinks that whoever draws water purple and clownfish green is fucking stupid. 

“Damn,” the guy says. Karkat glances over—without turning to face the guy, probably better not to encourage him—he’s also admiring the clownfish. From this angle, Karkat can almost see his eyes. “That is one mutated fish. Jesus. Goes to show, kids,” he continues, “what pollution will do to the oceans. Once blue and beautiful as far as the eye can see now only bulgy squiggly mutated fish. A real tragedy, a—"

“Do you ever shut up?” Karkat finally snaps. His headache is back—probably just a normal reaction to the bright lights, but it has been wearing on his patience. The guy pauses and his mouth snaps shut audibly. If Karkat felt worse about it, he might have thought the action looked like a flinch. He looks down at his hands and fiddles with the string on his sword hilt, and then stops, clasping his hands in his lap instead. 

Karkat digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and groans. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s cool,” the guy says and visibly stops himself from speaking more. Karkat hates himself a little more for making the dude look like that. He probably just wanted company—and not in the weird, creepy old guy way. Karkat’s been to the ER enough times to know how much it sucks to wait, especially on your own. 

Not to say there aren’t a fair number of freaks in the ER. Karkat has met all kinds throughout the years, including many he wished he hadn’t. 

He sucks it up and sticks out his hand for the guy to shake. “I’m Karkat,” he tells him. 

The guy shakes his hand once. He has lots of calluses, and Karkat wonders if he can actually fight with the sword he’s holding tightly in his lap. “Dave,” the guy says. “Sorry for talking so much. I’m a certified over-talker. Hundred percent authentic bullshit spewer.”

“I can tell,” Karkat says. He realizes how that sounds a minute too late and corrects himself, “I mean, you’re not half as bad as some of the patients here.”

“Come here often?” Dave asks. 

It’s a shitty line, and not delivered like Dave’s flirting—more like he’s just making conversation. Karkat stares at him blankly for a minute until he looks like he’s getting uncomfortable. He tells Dave, “I volunteer here.”

“Aw shit,” Dave says. “Can you check if I’ve got a concussion? I think I’m fine, fine as hell, but I’m still bleeding.” 

“I’m not a doctor,” Karkat snaps. “Head wounds always bleed a lot anyway. If the lady at the desk says you’re fine, and your pupils aren’t different sizes, you’re fine. Probably.”

Dave slouches back against the wall. “Aw, a concussion really would have improved today, to be honest.”

Karkat stares at him. “What kind of day have you had? Isn’t it like—”

“—Christmas Eve? Yeah.” Dave says. At first, Karkat thinks that’s all he’s going to say on the matter, leaving Karkat stupidly curious, but true to form he continues a second later, “family’s a lot on most days. Extended family is like—not just a recipe for disaster, but all the ingredients and utensils too, waiting for the sweet inevitability of chaos that comes with cooking.”

“So, what, you threw yourself down some stairs to get out of a family Christmas?”

“Close enough,” Dave shrugs. “It’s practically tradition at this point.”

Karkat is starting to wonder if Dave does have a concussion after all. With his shades on, it’s impossible to tell what his pupils look like. The gauze on his head is stained red, but it doesn’t seem to be bleeding as much anymore. He also doesn’t look nauseous, just washed out under the lights. If Karkat weren’t so tired, or stuck sitting on the floor of a waiting room, he’d have been a better person and checked. Instead he just frowns at Dave and asks, “why are you wearing the sunglasses indoors?”

Dave quirks an eyebrow. “Nuh uh. I don’t even know why you’re here yet, and that’s like, third date material. Slow down, bucko.” He looks Karkat over once, clearly noticing for the first time that Karkat’s not bleeding out. “Why are _you_ here?”

And isn’t that just the question. 

Karkat knows there’s two ways to answer the question. There’s the way that makes people look at him with unhidden pity and ask what his life expectancy is, or there’s the half lie he’s been telling as long as he has known how that lets people move on and feel better about themselves. He defaults to the second, not because he cares what other people think, but because it means it’s usually over and done with. He stares at Dave and realizes that he’s too tired and sick of this shit to care if Dave asks (more) stupid questions. Besides, he justifies, this is a wacko who throws himself down some stairs. 

“Chronic blood thing,” he says. “Genetic.” There are the long difficult to pronounce names for it, but they’re a thousand times less informative. “It’s nothing special, but it’s episodic. Hence,” he gestures descriptively at the ER, and doesn’t look up at Dave to catch whatever micro-expression he makes under his shades. 

Dave doesn’t ask how long he has to live, or what the side effects are, or whether there’s a cure. Instead, he says, barely a question, “And none of your stunning genetic donors are here to support you through this episode?” 

It’s rude, but at least and easy answer. Karkat is just grateful that this guy will understand when he says, “they’re not around. Winter break at my house is about as fun as yours, I think.”

“No way,” Dave argues. His face is still mostly impassive, but there’s a tick of something like a smile at the edge of his mouth. “My sister’s into tentacle porn and Dirk’s got a thing about horses. They talk about it at dinner.”

“Gross,” Karkat says, conceding. “Mine’s just—nasty. I elected not to participate in the farce this year.”

“Yikes.” Dave nods. 

They fall into silence. Karkat doesn’t go back to studying the clownfish—instead, he studies Dave. He’s looking pale, but his hand that’s not pressing the compress to his forehead is clenched tightly around the sword. He wonders about it—It looks real, which is weird, but it’s weirder that no one has asked him to leave it outside. Karkat guesses that the nurses and ER staff are a little busy. People are sitting on every available surface around them, young and old, short and tall, all absolutely miserable to be spending the night in a waiting room. A kid is crying somewhere, but Karkat can’t see them. 

Dave leans his head on his hand. His hair falls forward slightly. Some of it is sticky with blood. Someone throws up in the distance. A nurse calls a name, neither of theirs.

All things considered; this isn’t the worst Christmas night that Karkat’s ever had. It’s quiet, he’s spending it on his own terms, and he hasn’t had to pretend to be someone else for the sake of the family even once. It’s almost more relaxing here, than at his parents’ place. It has the same austere, joyless vibe as their living room, and the ground is less comfortable, but at least he’s allowed to close his eyes and wait for the nausea to pass again without someone criticizing his need to sleep constantly. Fuck his blood cells, seriously. 

“What was your worst Christmas?” he asks Dave. 

Dave tilts his head to look back at him. “Fifth grade. My brother was at a conference or some shit and forgot to leave more than a few packs of ramen or tell me that the stores would be closed on Jesus’ birthday.” He sighs and looks at the clownfish. “I was really fucking hungry by the time he got back on New Year’s.” Karkat tries not to look too horrified. He’s not sure he succeeds; he’s always been a bit too open of a book. “Yours?” Dave asks.

Karkat thinks back. Christmas has never been a good holiday for his family, he thinks. Too many expectations, maybe. 

He stares at the clown fish again. It grows out of focus as he reminisces. Soon, it’s just a blurry orange, green, and purple splotch. His head is spinning; his nausea has grown, a pressure at the back of his throat.

“Karkat?” Dave asks, and shakes his wrist. “Karkat?”

 _Oh shit_ , he has time to think, before his head hits the tile floor. He should have seen this part coming. 

…

Karkat wakes to the beeping of a heart monitor. 

It’s pretty common for him, all things considered, so he takes a moment to just sit there and breathe, assessing. His head is pounding, which is normal considering he fell over and probably hit it pretty hard. He can feel the IV in the back of his hand, which, double suck. Not the ideal Christmas meal. His throat feels dry. Besides the beeping of the heart monitor, he can hear the standard hospital bustle and the sound of someone breathing gently.

Someone is there? Karkat’s eyes fly open. 

Dave is there, sitting in one of those dinky uncomfortable plastic chairs, stitches over his eyebrow. His chin is held in one of his hands, and his glasses are off and hanging off of his collar. Karkat has time to think how weird it is that his eyelashes are practically white, before Dave jerks awake. He snaps to attention, looking around the room carefully, before his eyes, red like the exit sign behind him, land on Karkat.

“Shit, dude,” Dave breathes.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Karkat demands. His voice is croaky, rough with dehydration. Dave hands him a plastic cup of water. He accepts it, takes a sip, and tries again. “What the fuck?”

Dave shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I mean, I had to make sure you didn’t die. Otherwise this might have actually been the shittiest Christmas ever, and I didn’t want to replace my current least favourite so—” He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “Anyway, happy shitty Christmas. I can leave, if it bothers you.”

Karkat thinks about what’s waiting for him outside of the hospital: an empty grey apartment, phone calls that he’ll ignore. He thinks about empty hospital rooms and beeping machines, cafeteria food and boredom. He says, “you’d better fucking not go.”

Something almost like a smile starts to grow on Dave’s face. “What, are you still trying to ruin Christmas for me?”

“If I haven’t yet, there’s not much more I can do.” He shifts himself up on the pillows and scowls at Dave. “happy shitty Christmas.”

Dave grins.

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to any of y'all for whom holidays at home are complex and/or bring up complicated feelings! you're valid and you're not alone. the holidays are hard /shrugs 
> 
> wishing y'all a safe and happy xmas eve/day and for those of you who don't celebrate christmas, I still hope you are safe and happy!! 
> 
> please leave a comment to let me know what you thought! you can also find me on tumblr [@everythingsdifferentupsidedown](https://everythingsdifferentupsidedown.tumblr.com) :)


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